glish. Repeating earnestly my recommendatory
request, believe me, very truly, yours,

"BYRON.

"Perhaps you can help them to their passage, or give or get them
letters for India."

* * * * *

LETTER 283. TO MR. MURRAY.

"La Mira, near Venice, June 14. 1817.

"I write to you from the banks of the Brenta, a few miles from
Venice, where I have colonised for six months to come. Address, as
usual, to Venice.

"Three months after date (17th March),--like the unnegotiable bill
despondingly received by the reluctant tailor,--your despatch has
arrived, containing the extract from Moore's Italy and Mr.
Maturin's bankrupt tragedy. It is the absurd work of a clever man.
I think it might have done upon the stage, if he had made Manuel
(by some trickery, in a masque or vizor) fight his own battle,
instead of employing Molineux as his champion; and, after the
defeat of Torismond, have made him spare the son of his enemy, by
some revulsion of feeling, not incompatible with a character of
extravagant and distempered emotions. But as it is, what with the
Justiza, and the ridiculous conduct of the whole _dram. pers._ (for
they are all as mad as Manuel, who surely must have had more
interest with a corrupt bench than a distant relation and heir
presumptive, somewhat suspect of homicide,) I do not wonder at its
failure. As a play, it is impracticable; as a poem, no great
things. Who was the 'Greek that grappled with glory naked?' the
Olympic wrestlers? or Alexander the Great, when he ran stark round
the tomb of t'other fellow? or the Spartan who was fined by the
Ephori for fighting without his armour? or who? And as to 'flaying
off life like a garment,' helas! that's in Tom Thumb--see king
Arthur's soliloquy:

"'Life's a mere rag, not worth a prince's wearing;
I'll cast it off.'

And the stage-directions--'Staggers among the bodies;'--the slain
are too numerous, as well as the blackamoor knights-penitent being
one too many: and De Zelos is such a shabby Monmouth Street
villain, without any redeeming quality--Stap my vitals! Maturin
seems to be declining into Nat. Lee. But let him try again; he has
talent, but not much taste. I 'gin to fear, or to hope, that
Sotheby, after all, is to be the Eschylus of the